


Undergoes Pyrolysis

by craple



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q doesn't really smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undergoes Pyrolysis

**Author's Note:**

> asdfhjkl; i'm bored. this is what i do when i'm bored. i write smut for boredom. why q is so attractive dammit.

Q doesn’t really smoke.

It’s a bad habit, one he tries to leave behind.

Q _loathes_ the smell of cigar on someone’s clothes. Due to his statue, M has half-heartedly agreed on the ‘No-Smoking inside the Q-Branch’ policy Q perfected as part of the deal.

Which is why, the rooftop that was off-limits to everyone moments ago turns into a regular smoking place for his minions, ah, _fellow workers_.

Personally, it’s not like Q does not do a little smoking, per-se. He does, once or twice. But most of the time he finds himself tasting the sweet nicotine down his throat, inhaling the foul-smelling smoke through his nose – it happens only when he’s at the top of his stress breaking-point.

Q likes to think he’s more professional than that.

“Eve told me you don’t smoke.”

And there comes the urge to take the entire bloody pack at once.

Flicking the lighter with the tip of his thumb, Q watches the fire flicker and dies; the butt of his cigarette dissipating to the ground, ashes pooling between his feet. It is frankly very disgusting to watch. Q lets the stick go before fetching another one, and lights it with silent remorse.

Bond is a quiet presence in the background. Doesn’t stalk forward or move a muscle, or stare in a way that is expected of him: predatory

 Although Q – despite his brilliance and empty record of mistakes since he’s hired – can be wrong on his assumption of Bond’s profile. He’s no psychologist, but that doesn’t mean he can’t read people just as well.

Not that he’s spending a lot of his free time thinking about it. Bond is a fascinating object to be studied. Up until this moment, Q still has the urge to research Bond’s file more thoroughly than anyone ever has, out of simple curiosity than an obsession. Fortunately he hasn’t reached that stage yet.

Reason for that is, quite possibly, the fact that Bond is one of the most _frustrating_ people Q’s ever met. He’d be lying to say he doesn’t want to sleep with Bond, but the need to strangle his neck mission after mission overwhelms it.

To be honest – the reason Q is here, on the rooftop of MI6’s building, wearing a coat that is too worn to protect him from the cold, smoking his third cigarette for the day – is Bond. Q recalls of the event that has occurred six hours prior, and suddenly wants to grab Bond by the collar and shake him to see if his brain is as damaged as his person.

He takes a long drag, then exhales. The wind is getting colder and his fingers are starting to freeze. “Yes well, it really depends on the situation,” he says. “I haven’t smoked in a long time. The last time I did it was, oh, wait,” turning around, Q gives him a dry smile. “Right around the time you threw our suspect off a skyscraper and nearly blew half of Prague to pieces.”

Bond has the gall to shrug, the corner of his lips quirking into an amused smirk. “But it didn’t.”

“Only because it was sloppily-made,” Q snaps. “Next time we won’t be so lucky.”

For a moment, there is no reply from the other party. Q takes his time watching the scenery unfolds, the blaring horns of cars below and the flickering colourful lights from the buildings opposite; it doesn’t matter. He’s high on adrenaline and is pissed off as fuck. He deserves this moment of piece.

Warm, calloused hand settles around his wrist. Long fingers stroke down the underside of his arm, up to his hand, where he is still holding Eve’s lighter in a loose grip, and Q pretends his pulse does not just spike and rush like he’s running from the devil itself.

This is another reason why he hates double-oh agents; how they are so damn sneaky at times, hard but not impossible to comprehend.

Bond is taller by a few inches from him, and his body is like a furnace along the length of Q’s back. He supposes there is a reason, other than pretty to look at, that Bond is the agency’s first choice when it comes to information gathering via intercourse.

Even Q wouldn’t mind, he has to admit.

Bond takes the cigarette from Q’s lips and places it between his own. The motion is more intimate than he’d like to – and Q finds himself hard to look away. Leaning back into Bond’s space, craning his neck to _see_.

“We are working in a stress-induced environment,” Bond tells him. “If you only smoke after burdening too much stress, it is highly unlikely for you to stop anytime soon.” The smoke is directed to the left and away from Q, which he appreciates, if not a little.

His voice is warm-rough and deep, like he hasn’t slept in days because he’s had too much sex. Bond doesn’t look like he’s high on anything; those electrifying, crystal blue eyes of his are as focussed as they are on daily basis, assessing Q’s every movement in amusement of sorts.

Q is too angry for this, he doesn’t even _think_ when he turns around, gets _more_ than is appropriate into Bond’s space, and snatches the stick back between two fingers. His middle finger stays a bit too long, long enough for Bond to tilt his head and brush a kiss against the roughened skin at the tip – a result from typing too often.

He ignores the heat pooling at the pit of his stomach, the interested twitch of his cock, at the sensation. He tries to make sense of what Bond is saying, also probably, what he is _offering_. The tone he uses is slightly, if not clearly, suggestive.

And Q can restrain his physical reaction only for so long.

“I reckon you are going to suggest a therapy to prevent addiction, then,” he states, not a question. Bond hums under his breath, both hands now splaying comfortably against his hips, fingers curling into the loops of his jeans. “Among other things.”

The atmosphere shifts around them, and suddenly Q is too hyperaware of everything.

For example, the dim orange light of the city makes Bond’s eyes flashing between blue and gold. The top of Bond’s shirt is left unbuttoned, the wrinkles in his face smoothens, in a way that should not be possible.

Q swallows, then inhales sharply when Bond tracks the movement, hunger in his eyes. It’s not hard to read. _This_ Q is familiar with.

Though, in all honesty, he is more familiar with the concept of Bond getting, ah, aroused, by the more delicately-shaped gender. He is somehow not prepared for this.

“Is this the part where you offer to shag me as a stress-relieve?” asks Q, can’t hold either the incredulous and hopeful tone from his voice.

Bond reads him all too well, and replies, bluntly, “Yes.”

It’s – well. Q blinks. Doesn’t know what to do, or what the proper response to make of that is.

He flexes his fingers, realises too late that the cigarette is gone, looks back at Bond, who is staring far too innocently at him. Q purses his lips.

“I suppose a bed is in order?”

Bond flashes him a smile, pulls Q flush against his body. “Is that a yes?”

“Depends on whether or not you are as good as people say you are in bed.” Which is a total bullshit on his part, because he is definitely saying yes after – whatever it is about to happen – but Bond only smiles and doesn’t comment.

Slowly, he slips his hands beneath Q’s shirt. Nails digging into his hipbone, while his thumb strokes the sensitive skin on his lower belly. Q shivers and lets out a ragged breath. Biting his lips to prevent the groan coming outright.

Bond doesn’t seem to like that.

Q knows this because – because Bond _growls_ before pressing his lips firmly to Q’s. Lips moving sensuously over Q’s, tongue licking against Q’s teeth, suddenly sliding smoothly between Q’s parted lips and exploring every inch of Q’s mouth.

He’s too bold by half; Bond’s tongue touching, wrestling with his own. Sweeping over his inner cheek and the rows of his teeth.

Keeps pushing, pushing and pressing, until Q is practically glued to his front. Hips rocking against each other, while Q tries to match the pace with Bond. Giving as well as he gets while his own hands are wondering down beneath Bond’s pants.

After a while, they part for the much needed oxygen. Q inhales a lungful of them, the taste of Bond and mint and tea lingering in his mouth. His lips stinging in the sweetest way possible from where Bond has kissed him like he wants to _devour_ him.

It’s, ah. Q is rock-hard beneath, hips rolling down against Bond, can’t stop even if he wants to. He’s gasping and out of breath and is inevitably, perfectly, so turned on, he’s probably going to _murder_ someone with the power of his mind if he doesn’t get laid _tonight_. Preferably within the fifteen minutes ride toward Bond’s flat.

“Car,” Q reminds him, tries to keep steady. Bond’s thumb curls around the back of his neck, pressing down on the spot that makes him whine, needy. He nods.

“Car.”

\--

The ride to Bond’s flat is the most verbal Q has ever been with a person.

He didn’t expect Bond to grumble about the news and speculations of _Fifty Shades of Gray_ to be filmed, or how _The Lost Code_ is _not_ be filmed. Q had looked at him in disbelief, said something that made Bond frown, which led to a discussion of more than seven novels during the fifteen minutes of their drive.

At the end of said discussion, as the car slows into a purr around Bond’s complex, Q is vibrating with anticipation – and _need_. He _wants_ Bond, not more than anything or the like, seeing that if he were to be offered something _better_ than Bond, for example world domination, he’d take world domination anytime.

Not that he’s going to tell Bond about _that_. It’d ruin his objective of the night, which is: _to get laid_. More precisely to get fucked, but oh well.

“I do hope your room is not all brown and pastel, double-oh-seven,” quips Q cheerfully. Or as cheerful as he is during one of London’s better weather in the middle of November.

“I’m a man of classic taste, Q, but I can guarantee that my room is not all brown and pastel.” Replies Bond, in an equally cheerful manner as Q is.

A couple of teenagers dressed in silk and obnoxiously expensive tight jeans are heading for the lift, not so subtlety eying Bond’s ass as they walk by. Q is very mildly disturbed by this newfound fact; he is _not_ going to be able to sleep soundly tonight.

Unless they’re having a marathon, which is definitely okay in a sense, since tomorrow is _Saturday_. He hopes Eve didn’t book anything for Bond this weekend without telling. It would be a disaster if she visited while they’re having sex.

Plus, the all kinds of awkward questions or looks he’ll be facing afterward.

Q is starting to regret this.

“Hm. Should I be worried of my well-being the moment I step into your room? You didn’t activate any of your wire traps, did you?”

Bond just gives him this blank look, asks “And how did you know about that,” with a raised brow and the slight upturned of his lips. It is a look Q has long catalogued now, while the rest of the world is still trying to figure out what it means.

There _is_ a reason why he is the brilliant overlord of the Q Branch, after all.

“If this doesn’t work out, double-oh-seven,” Q says as Bond unlocks the door of his flat. “I’d like you to know that you owe me several – by which I truly mean _several_ – pack _s_ of cigarettes.”

Bond – the cocky fucker – smirks deviously, mischievously, Q’s nerve system short-circuits around the knees. “Of course.”

\--

As it happens, sex with Bond is more than awesome.

(The bed is ridiculously large, as ridiculous as everything in Bond’s life is. Bond doesn’t take his time of stripping Q with finesse; he pushes Q against the door the moment it closes, _rips_ the fabric of his cardigan with his bare hands, and proceeds to shove the pants out of the way.

Q doesn’t remember getting to the bed, but he does remember when he pushes Bond on the leather couch halfway down the journey, sucks the life out of him through his cock. Bond’s blunt nails scratching his scalp, tugging and pulling at his hair until Q is a trembling mess between his thighs.)

It’s _fantastic_.

(Bond gets him on his knees, when they get to the bedroom. Just his knees; shoving Q’s face to the pillow, but telling him that he wants to hear him – he wants to hear Q to _beg_ for it, wants to see his face when Q is sobbing and so hard and at the edge of coming, he can _taste_ it down his beautiful, beautiful throat.

The first thing Bond does is parting his arse cheeks, blows warm breath against the dust-pink pucker there, licks him once, then drags the flat of his tongue against Q’s arsehole.

From all the things – Q did _not_ expect this.

He moans and whines and _cries out_ as Bond moves, thrust his tongue in short, hard stabs into him, Q is quivering and begging him to just _please fuck him already, he can’t_ – and Bond is rearranging them so Q sits on Bond’s lap, his back pressed flush to Bond’s chest, and they are facing a mirror, and Bond tells him to _look_ ; tells him how _beautiful_ Q is, how he has wanted to fuck him for a while, and jacks Q off until he comes so hard he almost passes out with it.)

\--

Morning comes, Q wakes to Eve bringing pancakes into the bedroom, Bond’s arms wrapped possessively around his waist, and Tanner’s traumatised face as he hands Eve a glass of juice and a cup of tea on a tray.

“You owe us for this,” Eve tells him, smugly.

Q blows her a kiss then snuggles closer into the warmth of Bond’s body, settling in. She laughs before exiting the room.

“Do I still need to buy you a pack of cigarette after this?” Bond murmurs sleepily against the side of his head, burying his face into the messy lock that is Q’s hair.

Q grumbles, “Ask me again after round two, breakfast, and a round three, double-oh-seven. You are more inarticulate than I am as of this moment; don’t put a ring on it yet.”

Bond simply hums in agreement.


End file.
